


you are my unraveling

by katsumi



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, M/M, Miller is a nervous wreck, and terrible at emotions, the gang's on a ski trip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-04
Updated: 2016-11-04
Packaged: 2018-08-28 23:11:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8466589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katsumi/pseuds/katsumi
Summary: Miller is not worried. He's concerned. There's a difference.Or: No one can get a hold of Monty, who's driving through a snow storm to Clarke's ski cabin for the weekend, and Miller has zero chill about it.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So I fell down this rabbit hole for the 100 hard and fast, and now at least I have something to show for it.
> 
> The kids are all in their twenties (some early, some late), living in New England.

Miller is not worried. He’s _concerned_. There’s a difference.

 

Any friend would be concerned. His friends don’t seem to be, yet, but that’s just because they’re distracted assholes.

 

It’s been three hours since Monty texted to say that he and Clarke were finally getting on the road after work, and in that time the mild-mannered snow flurries had erupted into a full-blown nor'easter. They should have arrived by now. The drive up to Clarke’s family ski house only takes an hour and a half when you’re not crawling along at a snail’s pace to avoid being swept into a ditch on the side of the road.

 

Not that Miller thinks that’s going to happen. Or has happened. He’s not an alarmist.

 

Just, the sun set two hours ago, which makes it harder to see. And Miller knows for a fact Monty was up late last night playing video games _like an idiot—_ he’s got a gchat log to prove it—so Monty’s probably not prepared to cope with driving through an onslaught of snow.

 

Again: this is not worry. It’s concern. Perfectly reasonable concern.

 

His phone buzzes, and he’s not proud about how quickly he snatches it off the arm of his chair. But the text is another push notification from the National Weather Service, explaining (in _all caps_ , jesus) that a blizzard warning will be in effect for the next two hours.

 

“That’s not alarming,” Raven says, glancing at the same notification on her phone. From beside her on the couch, Octavia twists to peek out the window behind her.

 

“It’s like, pure white out there,” she exclaims. Like it’s a fun science experiment or something. Miller’s fighting back a growl when Octavia bites her lip, turning back to the living room.

 

“Shouldn’t they be here by now?” she asks.

 

 _Yes_ , Miller thinks.

 

Jasper frowns, taking a swig of his beer. “It’s not like Monty’s ever super punctual. They probably lied about when they were leaving so we’d stop hounding them to get up here.”

 

And while that does sound like something Monty would do, it doesn’t relieve any of the pressure that’s been mounting in Miller’s chest. He turns to Bellamy, who has been gripping an open can of beer from which he hasn’t taken one sip.

 

Bellamy is also _clearly not worried_.

 

“Has anyone heard from them?” he asks. Miller knows without having to check that the last text he got from Monty was fifty-seven minutes ago. He checks again, anyway.

 

 **Monty** : snowy as balls

 

 **Miller** : Haha yeah. You doing okay out there?

 

And then nothing. Fifty-nine minutes ago, now. If the last thing Monty ever says to him is _snowy as balls_ he’s going to lose his goddamn mind.

 

“I don’t know that they have reception,” Miller says, tight. He’s staring at Bellamy now, willing him to make some kind of move. _Don’t act so composed, asshole_. _Be the overprotective jackass we all know you to be at heart._

 

But Bellamy just frowns, nodding. “If we haven’t heard from them in a half hour, we should do something.”

 

Miller’s not sure he’ll be able to _breathe_ if this keeps going for a half hour, but something’s better than nothing. “Like what?” he asks.

 

“Yeah,” Raven echoes, grinning, “like what? Call the police? Clarke’s going to be pissed at you if you call the police.”

 

“Clarke can deal,” Bellamy mutters.

 

Octavia cocks her head at her brother, a teasing smile stretched across her face. “You’re not going to call the police. You’re going to play the hero and start driving up and down the highway to find her yourself.”

 

“It’s more efficient,” Bellamy grumbles. “But we don’t need to do that yet. Let’s give them a little time.”

 

In Miller’s opinion, that’s exactly what they should be doing right this very second, but if _Bellamy,_ overprotective boyfriend extraordinaire, seems to be okay with waiting, Miller should probably just shut up about it.

 

It’s not like Monty is his boyfriend. Yeah, they spend a lot of time together. And they talk almost every day. And sometimes Monty grabs his hand when he’s laughing and swipes his thumb, slow and soft, across Miller’s skin. And Miller has spent more time than he will ever admit to imagining what it would be like to shove Monty up against a wall and kiss his lips raw. But they’re just friends, really.

 

Also, Monty should be able to handle a little snow because he is a full-grown, intelligent adult with basic human reasoning and coping skills.

 

Which aren’t the same thing as _survival_ skills, but, you know, whatever. This is fine.

 

Miller sinks further back into his chair, glowering as Octavia and Jasper start planning which trails they’re going to run the next day and Raven chimes in to periodically remind them that the whole mountain might be closed. No one seems to acknowledge Miller’s stone-faced silence, which might be a sign that his default expression is too grouchy, but that’s a problem to think about on another day.

 

Jasper and and Raven are halfway through defining the rules of the drinking game they will play if the weather is too bad to ski all weekend when a light shines through the cabin window.

 

Octavia peeks past the curtain. “It’s Clarke’s car!”

 

Miller stands, sudden and sharp, needing a release for all the nervous energy. Beside Miller, Bellamy visibly deflates, closing his eyes in quiet relief.

 

The door swings open to reveal the marshmallow that is Clarke, bundled beneath an absurdly puffy jacket and what looks like three scarves. Miller can’t actually see her mouth, but her eyes are crinkled like she’s smiling.

 

“What’d I miss?” she croaks.

 

“You’re like three beers behind,” Raven laughs, tipping her bottle towards Clarke. “What’d you do, walk here?”

 

“It’s rough out there,” Clarke says, tugging her scarf away from her mouth. Bellamy has already slid behind her to brush the snow out of her hair, and Clarke leans back into him with a soft smile.

 

“Does Monty need help with the bags?” Bellamy asks.

 

Clarke glances at him, confused. “Monty’s not here yet?”

 

Miller’s heart plunges into his stomach.

 

“I thought Monty was with you,” he says, fast. “He said you were leaving together.”

 

Clarke’s eyes are wide. “We left at the same time, but separately. I might have to leave early on Sunday, so wanted to be sure we had enough cars for everyone to ride back together.”

 

Miller can barely hear her over the thrum of his heartbeat echoing in his ears.

 

“I stopped for gas,” Clarke continues, “and that took a while, so he should be...he’s really not here yet?”

 

“That’s it,” Miller says, already striding for the door. “Bellamy, keys.”

 

Thankfully, everyone has a soft spot for Monty, because Bellamy is already scrambling for his coat. “What’s the plan?” he asks.

 

“Drive up and down the goddamn highway until we find him,” Miller says, because _what else would the plan be_?

 

“It really doesn’t look good out there,” Octavia remarks. “Maybe we should call the police?”

 

“Oh shit,” Jasper moans. “Monty’s car doesn’t have four-wheel drive.”

 

“Keys,” Miller snaps at Bellamy. “ _Now_.”

 

Bellamy glances at him for a moment—which, fair; it is Bellamy’s car, after all—before dropping the keys in Miller’s palm.

 

“At least put on a coat, man,” Bellamy says. Like clockwork, Clarke pops up beside him, Miller’s coat in her hands. Miller likes Clarke, so he feels a bit bad when he snatches the coat violently out of her hands.

 

“Keep trying to call him,” Miller orders Clarke, throwing the coat over his shoulders.

 

But when he rips the door open, breath heavy, there’s someone trudging down the walkway towards the cabin, and Miller’s entire body unclenches.

 

 _Monty_.

 

Before he can really process what he’s doing, he is flying down the stairs and launching himself at Monty. He collides with Monty’s chest, his arms tight around Monty’s body, face buried into the chill of Monty’s neck. _Monty_.

 

“Thank fucking god,” he mutters, the relief spooling white hot in his gut. He clutches Monty even closer—he’s so _cold—_ and distantly feels Monty’s hand rubbing a small circle against his back.

 

“Hey, hey,” Monty whispers. “Nate. You okay?”

 

This is a stupid question for two reasons, the first of which being _no, he is definitely not okay, there is clearly something very wrong with him_. And second, why the fuck is Monty asking him; it wasn’t _Miller_ stuck out in the goddamn snowpocalypse.

 

“Yeah,” he manages. “Are you?”

 

Monty’s (fucking freezing) nose prods his cheek. “Yeah. Sorry I’m late.”

 

“You should be,” Miller says. Monty laughs, and Miller can’t help but grip him a little tighter at the sound.

  


* * *

 

 

Miller spends the rest of the evening glowering in the corner while his friends watch _Elf_ on Netflix, nursing a beer and doing everything in his power not to look at Monty. Warm, not dead-on-the-side-of-the-road, smiling Monty, buried beneath three blankets and squeezed between Octavia and Raven on the couch.

 

It’s one thing, Miller thinks to himself, when you keep fantasizing about making out with your friend. That’s pretty standard behavior. It’s another thing entirely when losing contact with said friend for an hour makes you completely and utterly lose your shit.

 

Bellamy handled this better than he did. _Bellamy_. Miller’s glad he volunteered to sleep on the couch; gives him a whole night of alone time to rethink his life choices.

 

When the movie ends, everyone starts making moves upstairs, but Monty lingers around the living room, taking an extra long time to fold up his horde of blankets. He’s throwing these little glances Miller’s way, and Miller curses to himself because the best excuse he can come up with to escape is to lock himself in the bathroom until Monty gets tired and goes upstairs.

 

It’s not a great plan, but he’s seriously considering it when Monty shuffles over, eyebrows furrowed. “Which blanket do you want?” he asks Miller, smiling a tad nervously. “I recommend the green one. It’s fuzzy.”

 

Miller tries really, really hard not to smile. He succeeds, but only because his sheer self-loathing triumphs over Monty’s charm.

 

“Nate,” Monty says, sitting on the corner of the couch closest to his chair. Their knees are inches apart. “Is something wrong?”

 

“It’s fine,” Miller says. But it’s a weak lie, and Monty sees right through it.

 

“It’s not,” says Monty, his voice soft and patient. “You’re...you’re mad at me, right?”

 

“Jesus,” Miller growls, snapping his head up to (finally) look Monty in the eye. “ _No._ ” Because he’s feeling a whole lot of shit towards Monty, but mad isn’t anywhere near the list.

 

The corner of Monty’s mouth tilts up into a lopsided smile. “See, I don’t believe you,” he says, without heat. He gestures towards Miller. “You _seem_ pretty mad.”

 

“Not at you,” Miller grouses. He lets the ensuing silence hang thick between them for a few moments. Monty’s looking at him like he’s a Rubik's Cube, like he’s trying to figure out how to cobble him back together.

 

“Okay,” Monty says, finally. “Okay.”

 

“Goodnight, Monty,” Miller says, desperate to just stop this conversation so he can wallow about how pathetic he is in peace. But then, because he’s worried he’s too harsh, he adds, “Uh, sleep well.” The smile Monty throws back at him is like a knife to his spleen.

 

“You too,” Monty says. He’s barely risen six inches off the couch before he twitches, hand snaking out to grasp onto Miller’s knee. This is alarming as fuck, and Miller might actually squeak. Monty doesn’t seem to notice.

 

“Wait, I have something for you!”

 

Before Miller can ask, Monty’s padded away to the mudroom, fished for something in his jacket pocket, and is walking back to Miller, expression triumphant.

 

“You left this at my apartment last week,” he says, sticking his arm out. Curled into his palm is one of Miller’s hats, a thin gray beanie. “You said you liked to wear it skiing, so I wanted to make sure you had it.”

 

Miller could swear he feels his stupid, grumpy heart go full Grinch and grow three sizes. All of a sudden it’s pumping super loudly in his ears, and all he can do is stare at the hat, speechless.

 

“Uh,” Monty starts, shaking his hand. “Is this...not the right one?” He frowns, glancing down at it. “That would suck. I went all the way back for it.”

 

Miller blinks. Then he leans forward and grabs Monty’s wrist, tight. “You _what?_ ”

 

Monty, clearly startled, burbles something incoherent. Miller tightens his grip.

 

“Monty,” he says, very carefully. “Did your drive take so long today because you went back to get my stupid hat?”

 

Monty pauses. And bites his lip. “Is that...bad?”

 

“For _fuck’s sake, Monty_ —” Miller starts, but his arms are shaking and he’s either going to hug Monty or punch him square in the face. And since he could never actually hurt Monty, he’s going to have to go with hug because oh, right, he’s a _huge fucking sap, now_. He all but yanks Monty forward until he’s sprawled half on top of him in the chair. Monty squeaks, and Miller wraps his arms around him. Tight.

 

“Don’t _do_ shit like that,” he grumbles. “Don’t drive through a snowstorm for my stupid fucking hat.”

 

“I would have had to drive through the snowstorm regardless,” Monty says, his voice a bit shaky. “Did...were you that worried?”

 

“ _Yes,_ ” Miller breathes. Monty tenses in his arms, then squirms a bit like he’s trying to pull back. Miller clutches tighter.

 

“Nate,” Monty murmurs, and the sound of his name on Monty’s lips makes Miller’s heart bobble against his ribcage. “Nate, it’s okay. Ease up. I just want to look at you.”

 

“Don’t want you to,” Miller growls into Monty’s shoulder. “This is so fucking embarrassing. No one should have to see this.”

 

Monty laughs, and Miller can feel it against his chest.

 

“I kind of like it,” Monty says, a near-whisper. “Two hugs in one day. If I head back into the snow, can I make it three?”

 

“Shut up.”

 

“Well,” Monty says, shifting his head slightly so that Miller can feel his breath on his ear. “What can I do, then?”

 

Miller freezes. “What?”

 

“For the third hug,” Monty says, soft, and Miller might stop breathing just for a second. He’s trying to figure out how to respond, but then Monty’s laughing again, pulling back so that his face is a few inches away.

 

“I’m kidding,” he says. “Look, it’s okay to show your friends you care about them. We don’t mind. We care about you, too.”

 

Miller nods, distracted by the fact that Monty’s face is _very_ close to his, but then stops. _We_ don’t mind?

 

“I care about _you_ ,” Miller says, blunt and a notch too loud. It’s a stupid, stupid thing to say, but he’s not letting Monty go to bed thinking he’d get this worked up if fucking Bellamy were lost in the snow. Might as well get all the embarrassment out now and then tomorrow, he can ski himself off a cliff.

 

“I mean, yeah, I care about them too, of course, but you’re...”

 

He trails off. Monty is gaping at him.

 

“Nevermind.”

 

“No,” Monty insists, shaking his head as if to refocus. “Tell me. I’m what?”

 

“You’re different,” Miller forces out. Monty looks at him for an agonizingly long moment, expression unreadable.

 

“Good different?” he asks, finally, and Miller barks out a laugh.

 

“That’s an understatement.”

 

Monty’s smile starts soft and quickly grows to consume his entire face. He’s such a ray of fucking sunshine, Miller can’t handle it. And then Monty reaches out and curls his palm around Miller’s cheek and he almost loses his shit completely.

 

“Shit,” he mutters, flinching out of pure shock.

 

Monty bites his lip, but his hand stays firm against Miller’s skin. “Too much?” he asks.

 

 _Way too much_ , Miller thinks. _I’ve had fantasies less hot than this. Get off of me before I wreck everything._

 

“No,” he says, a little choked. “It’s just, um. What are you doing?”

 

Monty stares at him. “You’re very hard to read,” he says, finally. “And I’m really bad at this. So, I’m just going to close my eyes, okay? Feel free to shove me off your lap.”

 

His eyes flicker down to Miller’s lips, then back up.

 

“Or, you know. Don’t. Your call.”

 

And then Monty closes his eyes, and Miller’s entire body goes numb. He’s not sure he’s reading this right, but he might never have Monty warm and happy in his lap ever again, and he’s going to curse himself out for the rest of eternity if he loses this opportunity.

 

So he leans forward and kisses him.

 

Miller swears he hears trumpets when Monty’s lips open immediately under his, wet and soft. The kiss is long, languid, Monty’s thumb tracing tender lines along Miller’s cheek and god, this is the _fucking best_. He wants to do this all the goddamn time. He almost whines when Monty pulls away.

 

“Thank god,” Monty whispers, grinning.

 

“Did you really think I was going to shove you off?” Miller asks. He’s grinning, too. “Full disclosure: any time you want to climb into my lap, that’s fine by me.”

 

“That’s good to know,” Monty says. “Can I...can I kiss you again?”

 

“Monty,” Miller groans, leaning forward so their foreheads touch. “You don’t need to _ask_.”

 

Monty closes his eyes, smiling. “I just want to make sure. I’ve thought about this a lot. I still think I might be imagining this.”

 

Miller’s breath catches. “You’ve thought about me?”

 

“More than is probably healthy.”

 

Miller exhales, sharp, and then he’s kissing Monty again, deep and frantic. Monty’s hand drops from his face to fist into his shirt, tugging him closer. Miller kisses a wet line across Monty’s jaw, and when he swipes his tongue along the curve of Monty’s throat, Monty lets out this breathy little moan that’s the best goddamn sound Miller’s ever heard. He’s going to commit himself to getting Monty to make that sound as much as he possibly can. And if the way Monty tugs his face back up for another kiss—eager, insistent—is any indicator, Monty’s going to let him.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s still snowing hard the next morning, but Raven still wants to try for a few runs down the mountain.

 

“We’re not going to be stupid and let _snow_ stop us from _skiing_ , right?” she asks, spearing a piece of toast and gesturing towards Bellamy, accusatory.

 

“We’ll give it a try,” Bellamy concedes, laughing, and Miller finds himself laughing, too. It’s alarming, but it turns out happiness is pretty hard to fight down. He’ll get a handle on it someday.

 

After breakfast, as they all part ways to put on ski gear, Miller feels Monty’s hand press against the small of his back.

 

“Hey,” Monty says, low against Miller’s ear. “Sure you’re okay with me driving in the snow?”

 

Miller rolls his eyes – he is _never going to live this down_ – and reaches back, tugging Monty’s arm around him. “I know, I know,” he says. “I’m an idiot. I promise I won’t get all weird.”

 

Monty pulls closer, and Miller can feel him smile against the back of his neck. “First, you are an idiot,” he says, and Miller laughs.

 

Monty kisses his cheek. “Second, I like that you worry about me.”

 

Then Monty’s hand lowers ever so slightly, fingers skimming the line of Miller’s skin just beneath the hem of his shirt. Miller sucks in a breath.

 

“And third, I was more thinking about the fact that everyone’s about to go skiing and this house will just be sitting here. Empty. For hours.”

 

“Fuck,” Miller mumbles. “Monty?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“I’m not okay with you driving in the snow.”

 

“I didn’t think so.”


End file.
